Today’s venue is the Covent Garden Hotel, a boutiquey shabby-chic place on Monmouth Street, off Seven Dials. Lots of dark wood. Very stylish. Very discreet.
I’m getting to know the smart hotels of Central London well these days. I could write a guide. Of course, it would only cover the reception areas and the bedrooms, with special emphasis on the mini bars and the comfort of the beds themselves. A small subsection on bathrooms. I never get to see the lounges or restaurants.
We know, of course, that Tamsin listened in as Patrick hoped she would. He says he heard her coming up the stairs after him, and I have been able to confirm that she picked up all the relevant information and is at this moment en route all the way over to Canary Wharf.
The funniest thing was that she wanted me to go with her. Funniest. Saddest. I’m not sure which actually.
Soon after she left I noticed that she’d called me a couple of times. One message: ‘Call me.’ I tried ringing her back, but she must have been on the tube because it clicked straight through to voicemail. I leave a message of my own:
‘Did you need me? I have my ringer turned up now so try me again. I’m around all evening.’
I can turn it off when I’m with Patrick. Blame bad reception. She knows my flat is like the Bermuda Triangle of mobile signals.
I’ve come to a big decision. I’m going to have to look for another job.
There’s no doubt in my mind that my position is precarious to say the least now. One slip with Patrick and I’m out. And finding employment when I’m a little inexperienced certainly beats trying to persuade someone to hire me after I’ve been sacked. Not that I think Tamsin would really have grounds to sack me. There are laws. But still. Why take the chance?
So, I have a plan. How can I find a job that adequately reflects my capabilities and not my experience? Who do I know who is in a position of power? Who ought to feel, in a sense, protective of me? To feel a bit responsible that I might be burning some bridges?
No prizes if you got the answer.
Because we’re not meeting till half six I don’t need to leave work early, but I do spend most of the last half hour getting ready. Making an effort. I’m sure he has enough of dressing gowns and saggy old M&S knickers at home. Being with me should be special. Something he looks forward to when Michelle is asking him whether he’d rather she bought cod or haddock fillets on her next trip to Tesco or if he’s taken the recycling out.
I change out of my jeans and into a cute black and white Warehouse knee-length pencil skirt and skyscraper heels. I hate not being able to have a shower, but I do what I can in the little sink that is, thankfully, inside the toilet cubicle. I have a very unfashionable tan, so that means I don’t have to worry too much about make-up, I just pile mascara on my lashes and slick on a bit of lip gloss and I’m done.
I collect my bag from my office. Lucy has already left for the day but the post sits on my desk waiting to be stamped and dropped into the post box. I sling it on Ashley’s desk as I pass.
‘Could you do this? I’m in a bit of a hurry.’
‘Of course,’ she says. No hint of an edge in her voice. She’s too nice for her own good, that girl.
‘Have a good evening,’ she trills as I head down the stairs.
At the Covent Garden there’s nowhere really to wait outside, so I hang about in the foyer, sitting on a bench seat that’s in between the front door and the reception desk. I play with my phone, trying to look inconspicuous. Patrick will have to walk right past me to check in. He’s late, of course. I know to expect this now, but I’m always afraid that this will be the time he manages to arrive at the appointed hour, so I get there early and just resign myself to waiting.
Bang on five minutes late – which by his standards means on time, I see his bordering-on-cocky walk out of the corner of my eye. I keep my eyes fixed on the screen. Even though I know Tamsin is halfway across London by now you never know who else might be around. Patrick has drilled this into me time and time again. It’s one of the Ben Rules. I’m well trained.
He walks right past me and I catch a whiff of his cologne. Some kind of figgy concoction from Jo Malone. That smell will forever conjure up memories of illicit sex in hotel rooms for me. One day in ten years’ time some poor unsuspecting computer repair man will pat that on his pressure points in the morning with no idea that the merest hint of it will result in me throwing myself at him, unable to resist as he tries to rid my laptop of a virus.
I hear him talking to the receptionist. Mr Charming. Patrick Mitchell, room for one night. No paper in the morning, thank you. I often wonder what they think when he leaves again at nine in the evening. What excuse does he give? Or do they just tip him a knowing wink, completely aware of the situation? Maybe hotels are full of people (or empty of people, depending on how you look at it) occupying them for only a couple of hours at a time. They should set up a rota.
She gives him the slip of plastic that passes for a key. I wait. A man sits on the seat opposite me, starts fiddling with his phone too. Probably doing the same thing I’m doing.
I wait the required three minutes. The rules state it’s supposed to be five but it gets too boring. Thankfully Patrick doesn’t seem to time me. Then I walk up to the reception desk, as confidently as I can, and ask to be put through to Patrick Mitchell’s room.
‘Hi,’ is all I say when he answers.
‘Hey,’ he says, and then ‘Four, two, four.’
‘OK, see you in a bit.’
I replace the receiver. Smile at the woman behind the desk. ‘Thanks.’
I know where the lift is from the last time we were here, so I make my way to the fourth storey. One last check that no one is about and I tap on his door.
Patrick opens it and smiles widely.
‘Hi gorgeous,’ he says, and even after a couple of months, I go weak at the knees.
I return the smile. ‘Fancy seeing you here.’
He pulls me towards him, arms round me, presses his lips on mine.
‘You look beautiful,’ he says when we come up for air eventually.
On the coffee table are a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket and two glasses. Pre-ordered as ever. Patrick pops the cork and starts to pour.
‘How long do you think Tamsin will wait?’ he says with a wicked smile.
‘Don’t.’
‘Why?’ he says. ‘She started it.’
‘I know, I know.’
We don’t say much for a while after that. We never do. Talking comes later.